


Heavy

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-05
Updated: 2002-02-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 15:37:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Heavy

## Heavy

#### by Susan

Title: Heavy  
Author: Susan  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/xfox7/  
Status: Complete  
Category: Unclassified  
Pairing (Primary): Mulder/Krycek  
Pairing(s) (Secondary):   
Crossover Fandom (if any):   
Crossover Info (if any):   
Other Pairing Info:   
Rating: Not Rated  
Spoilers:   
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel:   
Notes: This story was written as a christmas gift for my friend, Christina. It was inspired by, but not directly related to, the Joan Osborne song, Poison Apples. It is post-Requiem, but pre-season 8. It is from Krycek's POV. Many, many thanks to Louise and Zoe, the two best betas in the world. I don't know what I would have done without them!  
Warnings:   
Disclaimer:   
Summary: 

**HEAVY**

I'm crouched in a dark corner, waiting for my instincts to tell me that I can leave. I never second-guess my senses; I've learned not to. My nose is twitching at the sharp odors of the hospital, clean and sterile smells that cling and make my head ache. The minutes tick by, and they feel like hours, weighing on me, pulling me into their endless cycle. My mind drifts as I wait, still conscious of what's going on around me, but focusing on the events of late. I don't want to think about it. I tell myself not to. But I can't control it. Even though I know that the job is over, the deed is done, I still can't shake the residual guilt that always washes through my brain at times like this. And this particular chore was worse than usual. It was worse because the chore was you, Mulder. 

I'm here, in Scully's room, as I think about you, Mulder. She left a while back, but I'm waiting. Waiting. Anyway, I was here when she found out. You know, about the baby. I was in the hospital room with her when they told her, when she told Skinner. Of course, she didn't know I was here. But I was. Did you sleep with her, Mulder? Is the baby yours? I bet you finally succumbed to her. You told me once that you eventually would. The two of you were made for each other, you said, it was inevitable. You told me that she was made of everything good, and that you should want her for that. Should want, Mulder. Not what you really do want. Did want. 

You never could say out loud what you wanted, never admit it. Well, I did, and look where it got me. I told you what I wanted and that was that. That should tell me something, I guess. But it still cuts deep when I think on it. A haze clouded your eyes that day as you told me it was over, that you were only beating me because it made you feel better, and that you wouldn't be some sick man's way to get off. That was bullshit. You got off on it too, Mulder. You always denied it, but you did. My head's starting to really pound now and my legs are cramping from my position. I'm still waiting to leave this god-forsaken place. I have to be absolutely sure no one will see me sneak out. 

Well, if you did sleep with her, then I'm doubly glad you're gone. The thought of you settling for her, making a normal life because that's what she wanted, makes me seethe with anger. You used to be so different. You never used to want "normal"--at least, that's what I thought. Up until the day you threw me out, I believed that you wanted what we had--the uncontrollable conflict of love and hate, the pain, the blood, the lust--as long as we didn't say that's what it was. What we had meant something--whether you believed it or not. It was raw and sharp, not the mind-numbing normalcy of marriage and kids. When you would hit me, you touched me deeper than anyone else ever could. And I touched you too--you just didn't want to think I did. 

I buried it all, hid the memories of what we had shared under the guise of calculated coldness. But when I came to talk to you a few days ago, walking in after Skinner, Marita following close behind, I saw a familiar flash in your eyes. A flash of the old you--my you. All those memories came crashing back over me like a wave when I saw you again, pulling me into the undertow. I felt myself getting turned on, just by imagining what would happen if you let those old feelings take over. I would welcome it--I dreamed of your fingers pressing into the impressions circling my throat that I could still feel these years later. You used to push me to the edge, the pads of your fingertips pressing into the nape of my neck, ruffling the baby-fine hairs, and your thumbs cutting off my air, making my eyes swim in the vision of you hovering above me. I would have died that way for you, but you'd pull back just before I blacked out. How I used to wish that you would take me further, right to that brink of life. I wished you'd let go of yourself and just finish it--finish me. I rub my eyes, trying to keep the rustle of my leather jacket to a minimum, in case anyone is lurking about. If I don't move soon my legs are going to lock in this position, and I may not be able to escape quickly if need be. I'm getting too old for this. 

The first thought of you is like the first prick of the heroin addict's needle--the anticipation is almost as powerful as the drug. And you're just as addictive. I wanted-- want--nothing but you in this whole world. But you're just as deadly a drug, if not more so. Once I tasted your fury I never could get enough. I would leave you after those meetings, only to come crawling back for more. I'd find some innocuous tip I could feed you, some secret that wasn't worth keeping if you would just take your lifetime of frustration out on me. I would dream about you, think about you all the time, planning how to see you again. Usually the bruises and cuts from the last time had not even healed before I was back again to let you inflict your worst. It hurt me more to have old wounds reopened, fading bruises brought back to a vibrant blue and purple against my skin. And I wanted the pain, wanted to see that look on your face as you concentrated on me. On my punishment. I was the only thing that you wanted at that moment. It was the biggest high I've ever known. 

But it wasn't just me who gained from all that. It did you good to see me suffer. It took the poison out of you. You gave all your bad--all your hate--to me. You fed it to me as you kneed my groin, as you broke one of my fingers. And it was my sustenance. As long as I had your hate, I had you. I didn't ask anything of you except your rage. I gathered it to me and wrapped it around myself, losing conscience, guilt, remorse when you told me that I was evil. I felt evil when you said that, and I could then play the role of the heartless assassin. I needed to hear the words from your lips, your condemnation. 

And the memories of all that, those years ago and just days ago flood upon me now and smother me with sweetness. I can feel my heart rending in the pain it hasn't been allowed to feel before now. If only I could again feel your knuckles cracking into my nose or your stone hard cock ripping into my ass, I could balance myself. I never could find my groove again after you knocked me out of it. No other man could ever hurt me or love me like you did. I was untouchable to all but you--my tormentor and my savior. 

I feel the tear slip over my lips before I even realize I'm crying. I shake my head defiantly, fighting against the feelings ripping me apart. I'm not sorry about sending you to that ship. I'm not! Especially now that Scully is going to have a baby, your baby. Besides, I know you would have gone on your own had you known it was there, hovering in those woods. It was all you ever needed--proof that aliens do exist, proof of the conspiracy that ruled you, ruled you since the day they took Samantha. You couldn't have known that it was you they were after. But I knew what they wanted, and I gave you to them. You are their prize, their ace in the hole. At last, Fox Mulder is in their possession. And forever out of Scully's. Forever out of mine. I choke back a sob at that thought, quickly glancing to see if anyone heard, if anyone is there. 

Silence. I think I can leave now, it's all clear, but I am stuck in my thoughts, unable to function with the possibility of never seeing you again. I slide up the wall soundlessly, my gun held tightly in my sole hand. Pain flashes through my head as my muscles cramp, and a surge of regret leaves my chest aching. But I won't feel guilt. I won't allow myself to. You asked for punishment when you denied me mine. I've been waiting for my chance ever since you pushed me out of your apartment, leaving me cold and without the physical comfort of your hate. Watching your window at night, I clutched myself, rocking back and forth as the pain coursed through me. I couldn't bear the thought that you were hating me in private, keeping all your rage for yourself instead of letting me feel every ounce of your suffering. 

And I made a decision. If you wouldn't give me what I needed, I sure as hell wasn't going to let you get off lightly. I wanted you to understand what it is to want something so badly, something that is out of your grasp. And that's what your reality is now. You will never again know what you took for granted while you were here--life, pure and simple, and someone who understood you better than you did yourself. Someone who was willing to swallow all your pain and suffering, who wanted nothing more than a moment in your eyes, in your mind. You gave that up, Mulder, when you gave up me. 

I start to move now, tucking my gun into my jeans under my coat, walking slowly from behind the wall where I have been hiding for the past few minutes--or hours, I don't know which. No one notices me; I force myself to become part of the background. But even as I walk out of this hospital, striding down the fluorescent lit corridors as though I was meant to, I think of you, Mulder. I dreamed last night they were torturing you on that ship, and I awoke in a cold sweat, scared, worried, and--aroused. Greedy, hungry-- at that moment I wanted to feel your pain again, to have them torture me instead, with you watching as they did. I let myself imagine it was me who they strapped down, and it was you who controlled the tests, you who inflicted the pain. I almost felt the sting of your palm against me, the shattering of a bone, the weight of your body as you held me down. I was shuddering uncontrollably, my body curled into a tight ball, and the release of my orgasm was overshadowed by the physical lack of you. I can remember the pain, remember your face, but I can't duplicate the cuts from your nails, the welts from your belt. What good are the memories, when all I want is you, your hands pummeling me, your lips skimming my wounds when you thought I was unconscious. I could not sleep after that; I could only lie there and think of you. 

The automatic doors whoosh open before me as I leave the hospital. The night air descends upon me, the mugginess of a D.C. summer taking my breath away, making sweat pop out instantly on my upper lip. Looking into the sky, I stop for a moment, people brushing past me as I stare into the midnight blue void above me. I send a message into the stars as I stand there. Wherever you are, Mulder, if you can hear me, I hope you know why I did this to you. Why I did it for me. 

I walk to the edge of the street and hail a cab, pushing you to the back of my mind. I have new concerns-- and now that you're gone and Spender's dead, I'm more important than ever. I have plans to make, people to see. This power is all I have left, and I'm going to use it as much as I possibly can. It's all in my hands; I have to pick up the pieces. Replace the order I shattered. And they're searching for you. I have to prevent them from ever finding you. I won't let them give back to you what you took from me. Your life is over--I've seen to it. 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Susan 


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